


here, bunny, bunny, bunny...

by thefudge



Category: Once Upon A Time In Hollywood (2019), Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate History, F/M, Journalism, Late Night Conversations, Old School Feminists, One Night Stands, Playboy Bunny, ost: jose feliciano - california dreamin'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 16:16:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20343019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: 1963. Gloria Steinem has been assigned a story which requires her to infiltrate the Playboy Club in LA. Cliff Booth and Rick Dalton happen to be passing through. Cliff/Gloria (based on semi-real events)





	here, bunny, bunny, bunny...

**Author's Note:**

> So, the facts:  
Gloria Steinem really was assigned this story back in 63, but she infiltrated the Playboy Club in New York. You can find her two-part article on her adventures there online. There's also a great Drunk History episode on it which you should definitely watch. Since Tarantino loves to tweak history, I decided to do the same and fashion a meeting between this real person and a fictional character. Some details are pulled out of Steinem's experience, but most I obviously made up (the Playboy Club stuff is pretty accurate, though). The story will also take us to 69 and deal with the Manson murders and the events of the movie.  
I hope you enjoy this wild mess!

_ 1963 _

It was splendid, muggy weather for March. Rick had just scored one more full season of _ Bounty Law _ and he wanted to celebrate, even if it was just past ten in the morning. Luckily, Robert Fuller, whom he’d befriended on the set of _ Buckskin _back in 1959, was already uproariously drunk and knew just the place. 

Cliff had to drive them both. He didn’t mind. He smiled in the rear-view mirror as the boys talked shop about Michael Landon and how he’d scored a really juicy part on NBC’s _ Bonanza _ and how that should’ve gone to _ them _because they’d been in this business since John Wayne could lace up his boots, and did no one care about seniority anymore? And anyway, NBC was going to hell in a basket, they both agreed. 

“Now, now, gentlemen, we’re here to celebrate, as I recall,” Cliff reminded them, mock-paternal, and the two immediately cheered up and started talking about how they'd ditch TV for movies very soon. TV was a has-been. Its glory days started and ended with the 1950s. It was time to move on. 

This was the general song and dance until Cliff parked in front of the new Playboy Club on Sunset Boulevard. 

Rick lowered his sunglasses. He suddenly turned shy, though he tried to cover it with bluster. Oh, he’d heard about these places, but he’d never actually been, he thought they were sort of schmaltzy. Robert grabbed him by the shoulders with a fraternal leer. “Welcome to the _ real _Bonanza.”

Cliff kept smiling good-humoredly. He hadn’t said anything in the car, but he’d been nursing a splitting headache since early morning. The good thing about the club was that it was darkly lit, discreet. He’d expected garish lights and colors. A sex-ed up stake house on Sherman Oaks. But only the white tufts on the girls’ rears shone bright white in the black-panelled rooms. The place was polished sleaze: martinis on the rocks and red caviar, served to you by the naughty version of your childhood housemaid, the one you grew up jerking it to. 

Rick was mesmerized. He was slumped in a booth, laid flat by the power of those gravity-defying corsets. Cliff couldn’t fault him. The ladies were sterling. Their full figures like ice cream in a cone. You wanted to scoop them up. He didn’t care much for the bunny part, though. 

He stood up at the bar, canvassing the salon. There were all sorts of Bunnies: Door Bunnies, Cigarette Bunnies, Zippo Bunnies, Camera Bunnies with Polaroids round their necks, Hat Check Bunnies, Mobile Gift Shop Bunnies, and Table Bunnies. A regular family farm. 

He might've enjoyed the show if the rest of the men had not been there. Every time he followed a little missie with his eyes there was some bald-haired executive who got in the way and cooed, “Here, bunny, bunny, bunny...". He cupped the girl’s ass and honked her tail for good measure, rubbing his nose in the spot under her ear, making her giggle and tremble. 

Cliff pursed his lips and drank. 

As he watched the room he couldn’t help feeling someone else was watching too. You hone in these sort of instincts when you’re up to your neck in the Nakdong River and those Korean commies are waiting to shoot at you from the bushes. 

He just couldn’t put his finger on it yet.

_ There you are. _

She was serving in the back of the room, tall, leggy, mermaid dark hair, smoky, sharp eyes that instead of following her patron’s signals were circulating the room, watching each girl carefully. Every time a man approached a Bunny, she looked, assessed, approved or disapproved. 

Almost like she was keeping score. 

When she locked eyes with Cliff across the room, she flinched and seemed to remember something. She quickly donned a glamorous smile and turned her attention back to the men at her table. 

Cliff chewed the inside of his cheek. Yeah, he was sure the girls had a laugh in the changing room at their expense. The leggy brunette did nothing to disabuse the notion. When one of the older men tried to put a twenty between her breasts she gingerly picked up the bill like it was a piece of slime and stuffed it in herself with the kind of contemptuous smile that could saw a person in half, like in those Saturday morning _ Allakazam _shows. Not that the poor bastard noticed. 

As soon as she left their table, the brunette took out the twenty from her cleavage and placed it on the tray of a passing Cigarette Bunny with a wink. The other girl smiled and shook her head, making him believe this had been a rogue move on the brunette’s part. 

Cliff wanted to keep watching her, but Rick was suddenly at his side, pulling him away from the bar. 

“Hey, get a load of this!” he slurred in his ear. “Get a load of this - Robert just told me he wants to get back into music! Yeah, _music_. Not even Broadway. He says Julie London's gonna help him record an LP. Can you believe it?”

Cliff smiled patiently. “No shit.”

“Really! I had to come over just so I didn’t laugh in his face! Say, we should come here more often.” 

Cliff let Rick lead him back to their booth. 

He looked over his shoulder. 

The brunette was gone. 

A week later, Rick expressed his desire to go “hunting for waaaabits”, drawing out the vowels like Elmer Fudd. Cliff obliged him, as always. Only this time he was looking forward to it. 

He parked his charge with no less than three Bunnies at his side. They all professed to be huge fans of _ 14 Fists of McCluskey _. Although when Rick asked them if they wanted to hear the sauerkraut line they tittered without context and hoped he’d be distracted by their floating tits. He was.

Cliff sauntered to the bar and surveyed the room. He couldn’t see his leggy brunette anywhere. He was pretty confident he could single her out, even if the leotards made them all look like still figures on playing cards. 

She wasn’t at any of the tables. She wasn’t in the Piano Room either. Maybe today was her day off.

Cliff rolled the ice in his glass. Well, this was going to be a good waste of time.

He finished his drink, fished out one of the magazines stuffed in a coat rack, and went out the back door. He could do with some fresh air. 

She was bent over a stack of crates, bunny tail in the air. 

Now, Cliff was only a man. There was only so much he could do. He stood back awhile and took a good, long look, until he’d had his fill. 

She was writing something down, so engrossed in her task that she only heard him when he brushed some gravel with his foot. 

To his surprise, she didn’t snap up or try to shield her modesty.

No, she only glanced over her shoulder. 

“No visitors allowed back here.”

Cliff pulled a cigarette from his pack. “I’m not visiting.” 

Those smoky eyes assessed him and slowly recognized him. He was pleased.

She finally stood up, rubbed her elbows, and stashed the notepad in her cleavage.

“That your diary?”

“Grocery list,” she replied with a smile that only raised one corner of her lips. Her voice was low, languid, commanding. 

He offered her a cigarette. 

“Thank you kindly,” she said, faux-Southern drawl that made him sure she was from the East Coast. 

She bent down. He lit it for her. 

He decided he liked her eyes best. There really was something formidably sharp there. 

They smoked together for a while.

“Why aren’t you inside?” she asked at length.

“The same reason you aren't, I imagine.”

She snorted. “I doubt it. None of the girls to your liking?”

Cliff smiled. “Sure they are. But it looks too much like a trick or treat in there.”

“Really?”

“No offense, but I don’t like the kiddie costumes,” he said, staring at her bunny ears.

She cocked her head, studied him. “Mm, I don’t believe you.” 

“Why’s that?”

She shrugged. “You like them. You just want to be persuaded. All men resist cliche, thinking they’re above it, but they’re secretly hoping a gal comes along to prove them wrong.” 

Cliff’s smile widened. He exhaled smoke. “If I got you right, you’re saying I like bunnies, I just haven’t met the right one.”

She winked. “There you go.”

He laughed. 

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” 

She pointed to a little name tag on the top of her bust. 

“Marie,” he read. “You don’t look like a Marie.” 

“What _ do _I look like?”

The thought came unbidden. He caught himself saying it out loud. 

“Egyptian queen.”

Marie raised an eyebrow appreciatively. 

Cliff coughed. “You know, those _Cleopatra_ posters are plastered all around town.”

She laughed and nudged him with her hips. “You saying I look like Elizabeth Taylor?”

“More or less,” he drawled, nudging her back playfully. He’d never been this friendly with a woman before. Flirting, sure. But there was an ease here that made him pause. 

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Cliff.”

“Cliff,” she echoed. She got closer and raised her hand. Her forefinger lightly traced the edge of his jaw. “You sure got the sharp lines to prove it.” 

Cliff’s eyes darkened a little. “When do you get off work?” 

Marie lowered her hand. 

“Actually, today’s my last day here.”

Cliff whistled. “That right? Well, lucky me for catching you.” 

Marie smiled. “I don’t know about that. Don’t you have an actor friend inside?” 

Cliff nodded. “I’ll drop him off soon. Then I’m all yours.”

The Bunny sized him up. “All mine, huh? Don’t tell that to every girl you meet or they’ll think you’re easy.” 

He belly-laughed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. 

“Pick me up at ten?” she asked, but it wasn’t really a question.

He was going to be there, no matter what. 

They drove down West Pico Boulevard, past the Hillcrest Country Club and its manicured lawns lit by a few eerie spotlights, an oasis that looked nothing like LA, but was actually a pretty good capsule of “good living”, nestled right at the rear-end of West Hollywood, but shielded from its vice by tall sycamores and artisanal marble fountains. At night, the Country Club looked abandoned, like the Garden of Eden freshly deserted by Adam and Eve. 

Marie let her arm dangle out, catching the distant sea breeze. She leaned her head back, watching the billboards flash by. She was enjoying herself, was enjoying the ride. 

He respected that. So many people didn’t really know how to spend time in a car, forgot to take in the big picture. 

“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked.

Marie turned to him. “What makes you say that?”

“You look at the place like it’s brand new.” 

“Well...so do you.”

Cliff laughed. Sharp, those eyes. “Yeah, I always find something new in it.” 

“You can take off your shoes.” 

It wasn’t a request. 

He bent low in the foyer, watching as she shlepped out of her own sandals and threw her jacket on the couch. 

She turned on more lights. Her living room, as far as he could see, was stacked with books and papers. There was a chrome yellow, scholarly glare everywhere. It was a bit claustrophobic. She picked up a few dirty coffee mugs next to a typewriter.

“Make yourself at home, I’ll just tidy up a bit. Do you like gin? I can make singlets.” 

“I’m not against it,” he muttered, shuffling towards her, bare-footed. 

Marie raised herself on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the lips, enough for his blood to get going. She pulled away. “I’ll be out in a few.” 

Cliff felt adrift. He was still a little puzzled about the ease between them, the way she took things in stride. Like they'd always known each other. It felt brand new. 

He walked around her living room, studied the printed paraphernalia, so abundant and so eccentric, lewd pulp magazines sitting on top of Columbia Law Journal numbers, French existentialists crowded in with dozens of Georgette Hayers, stacks and stacks of ladies’ magazines lumped in with the Chicago Tribune, full-sized Pin-Up Girl prints next to Goodwill pamphlets and Library Sales' tickets. He turned around in a circle. The excess of personality made him dizzy. He was getting hard. It was a weird feeling. He wanted to fuck her whole collection. 

He closed his eyes for a moment and then edged his way to the hallway where another yellow cone of light trailed from the kitchen.

“Say, this whole place is yours?”

Marie ducked her head in the doorway. “More or less. Roommate’s out for the week.”

Cliff nodded. Yeah, that was a load of bullshit. 

There was no roommate here. No fingerprint except hers. 

In defiance, he dragged his finger across her desk, the top of her scudded typewriter, the blank paper in the lever. 

Either she was a really bad liar, or she knew how it looked and didn’t care.

Marie came back out with two glasses. 

Cliff thanked her. 

He took a sip and almost choked. It was a good kind of choke. He drank again. 

“Holy shit.”

Marie beamed. “Yeah, it’s the one cocktail I’ve mastered.” 

“I’ll say.”

She pulled some old newspapers from the couch and made room for them. 

They drank in silence for a while. They were good at that, spending time in silence.

Cliff looked at her. She was wearing a white tennis shirt and a long, frayed skirt, stained dark at the hem. Her mermaid hair was pulled up in a ponytail. She’d wiped the makeup from her eyes, but they hadn’t lost one bit of power. What he couldn’t understand was how she could feel so comfortable with a stranger. 

He looked at the room instead. 

“Some place you got here. Real original. Hope you don’t lose it.” 

She leaned back. “Why would I lose it?”

“Well, you said you’re out of a job now.”

She blew a strand of hair out of her face. “I always fall back on my feet.”

“That so, _ Marie _?”

She didn’t miss his sarcasm. She raised her glass. “I make a mean singlet, at least.” 

“That you do.” 

She raised one leg to her chest and rested her chin on top.

“Okay. I see you’re not amused.”

“It’s not that. I’m just not good with games.”

She squinted at him. “You said you’re a stuntman. I should think that’s your job.”

Cliff smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was contemplating his next move. 

Marie scooted closer to him. 

“All right, all right. My name’s Gloria. I’m from New York. I came here on an assignment. I’m writing a paper on the Playboy Clubs. Do you still want to go to bed with me?” 

Just like that. 

Cliff exhaled. 

_ Gloria _. 

Queenly. He hadn’t been too far off.

He realized later that she hadn't been teasing. She'd asked for his consent, like she was afraid of hurting him somehow. 

He was touched and faintly insulted and turned on. 

He carried her to the bedroom with her legs wrapped around his waist and her mouth on his, and all the while he could hear that bald guy at the club going, _ “Here bunny, bunny, bunny…” _

He watched her insert the device between her legs like it was a missing part of her body. Nothing to it. 

He just hadn’t seen it done before, like this. New York girls, huh. 

She looked up. “Sorry to ruin the romance.” 

“Are you kidding me? I’m in love,” he joked with that ease that still unsettled him. 

She was lazy in bed, languid, slow, liked to touch a lot, like a _ whole _lot, and not that he didn’t have the stamina for it, but if she kept kissing and licking in circles down his bellybutton he might embarrass himself. 

“You’re just really beautiful,” she said, as she caressed the lines of his body, the scars and the army tattoos, her chin resting on his pelvic bone.

Cliff didn’t know how to respond to that as he had never been called so. He had been lusted after many times. He knew he had it good. But this was not in his repertoire. He was only the stuntman. 

Her fingers teased every part of him. His breathing grew more erratic under her gaze. He felt naked and clumsy and liquid. 

He felt, he realized, like a woman. 

_ You’re beautiful too _, he should have said, but Gloria didn’t need to hear it, not like he did. 

She made him come before he even really touched her. 

He stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, coming down from the high. 

Gloria licked her fingers. “This would go well with the singlets.”

He was stunned. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to grab her and never let her see sunlight again. Just keep her here in this room and fuck her brains out.

Which he did, after half an hour or so. 

Gloria brought the pretzels to bed. 

“Dip them in coffee like this,” she showed him, giving him a full mug. 

Cliff ate and drank with relish. Everything she gave him tasted good. 

“Do you wanna watch me work? I just gotta type up my notes for tonight before I forget what they’re about.” 

Cliff checked his watch. It was close to 4 AM. In three hours’ time he had to go pick up Rick.

He’d be sorry to leave this place.

“Sure thing.” 

She was even sexier with glasses on, typing at light speed, the yellow glow of the lamp lengthening her features, turning her into an oil painting. 

He ate and watched her. 

“You planning on bringing Hugh Hefner’s empire down?” he teased. 

Gloria lowered her glasses. “Oh, no. I just want him to stop fleecing the girls’ wages and forcing invasive medical exams on them.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. _My_ physical was a nightmare. The doctor on call put half his arm up there.” 

Cliff stopped eating. “What’s his name?”

“Oh now, don’t get all cavalier. I didn’t come to LA to start fights.”

He smiled uneasily. “No?”

“Well...not those kinds of fights.” She wrinkled her nose. “Those poor girls, though.”

Cliff walked over to her, stared at her notes in the lamp light. “They must’ve known what kind of club they’d be working at.”

Gloria raised an eyebrow. “They don’t tell them everything, obviously. That's the point. They lure them in and then tell them it's too late to change their minds. Do you know they’re hustling them for free? Some VIP members have keys to certain “rooms” on the premises. The Bunnies on call have to go with them when they see the key."

Cliff drummed his fingers on the back of her chair. "Let me guess. They don't get a cut of that." 

Gloria snorted. "What do you think?" 

“...I think you're gonna get your ass sued if you publish this. But hell, I'll stand up for you." 

Gloria looked up at him with mischief. “Is that a quote from a local Playboy patron? Are you joining the cause?” 

Cliff laughed. “Go on, finish up quick.”

“Why?”

“You know why.” 

His hooded eyes and the fingers that had crept to the back of her neck, caressing the soft hair there, made her shiver. 

He kept his hand there until she finished typing. 

When she was done, he scooped her up on the desk, but he was careful not to disturb her papers. 

She felt touched, even as his indelicate hands parted her legs and probed to see if she was wet. 

“You’re _ that _Cliff Booth, aren’t you?” 

His hands stilled. The air was still too. 

Her voice was even and calm. “I read an article in the paper about a stuntman and his wife.” 

Cliff swallowed a sigh. He wanted to move away, but she had him trapped between her legs and she wouldn’t budge. 

She leaned forward, trying to catch his eye. “They said it was an accident, but you know how the rumor mill can get.”

Cliff worked his jaw. “We should call it a night. I have to get to work soon anyway.”

“I’m not trying to grill you, I promise. I just wanted to say sorry about your wife. I know it was recent, and it must still hurt sometimes.”

Cliff couched his surprise in a bitter laugh. “Am I gonna end up being one of your articles?”

Was this what it had all been about? Getting a story? He hated the sting of it. He’d been played like a fiddle. 

Gloria scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I'm not going to write about you. Men kill their wives all the time. It’s practically mundane.”

Cliff felt a low simmer in his belly. He finally met her eyes. 

“You’re a real piece of work.”

Gloria leaned back, splayed on her desk like a buffet. “And you’re not really all that guilty.” 

Cliff was still hard for her, he realized, and it made him angrier. 

“What makes you say that, female intuition?” 

Gloria frowned. “_ People _ intuition. I think you wish you _ had _killed her. It’d make it easier. But it’s more likely she slipped and you couldn’t be bothered to save her. In fact, maybe you tried, but halfway through you told yourself not to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Cliff swallowed. It would be fucking terrible to laugh just now, but it was her damn fault. She kept making him. He ran his knuckles down her thigh, like petting a cat. 

"You don't know what you're talking about."

Gloria stared him down. “Listen, I knew who I was letting into my home and bed. All these wars have made everyone a killer. If I had to avoid all of you, I’d never leave the house. I'm not worried about me. I'm worried about you, Barbe Bleue.” 

It took him a few moments to catch the reference. He shook his head. 

“Why’s that?”

“They made you a killer, but your heart’s not in it. That’s not your real craft.” 

Cliff cleared his throat. “I’m almost afraid to ask what my real craft is.” 

Gloria smiled. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? You want to act. You want to be a star. You want to be just like your friend, Rick Dalton.” 

Cliff let the breath go out of his lungs. He felt immeasurably sad and foolish. Soon, he’d have to drive him to set. A brand new day. 

What was he doing here? 

Gloria cupped his cheek. 

“I’ll tell you a secret. I like you more. And I think that Dalton fellow is pretty terrible in bed.”

He couldn't stifle the laugh anymore. 

Cliff leaned into her touch. 

“We don’t have to fuck,” she said. “Let’s just sleep for a while.” 

She led him back to bed. She coiled her body around his. He held her to him and kissed the top of her head. Her heartbeat was regular. She smelled of dry ink and coffee. Gloria fell asleep with her head on his belly. She was not afraid at all.

He marveled at that. 

Then again, she’d have to be fearless, to do what she did. 

He ran his fingers through her mermaid hair. She was destined for great things, but it didn’t matter right now. 

Sometimes, you meet someone, and you're just a person with them. That's the miracle. 

He knew there’d never be a night like this again. 

Not for him, anyway. 

He didn't know it then, but time was running out. The last dawn of an era was dragging its feet.

He left without waking her, catching a last glimpse of glory. 

_1969_

He thought she might want the story. That’s why he'd called. 

Last time he’d talked to her was ‘67, right before she joined the ‘68 election on George McGovern’s side. She’d sounded riled up about McCarthy and Bobby Kennedy. All she had time to talk about was politics. They exchanged letters every now and then, but she was so busy. She’d become a spokesperson, someone in demand. He read all her articles, regularly. But that was about the gist of it. There was no time for friendship, only fond remembrance.

Still, when she slid the door open and entered the ward, he felt as if no time had passed at all. He’d only just left her apartment.

“Oh, honey,” she said, low and commanding, stirring everything up in him. She looked down at him reclined in the hospital bed with so much silent compassion that he wanted to say, _ you should see the other guys _. Actually, he hoped she wouldn’t. It would be more damning evidence against him. 

“Nice of you to come, Gloria.” 

“I got on a plane as soon as I heard.” 

He grinned. “I thought you might want the inside scoop.”

She forced herself to chuckle and sat down by his side. She was worried for him. There were white streaks in her long dark hair. She looked dignified and beautiful, still young but less charitable. This Gloria might not have let him watch her type her notes. 

Still, those smoky eyes had lost none of their magic. 

“Tell me how you feel. Does it hurt?” 

Cliff sucked in a breath. She had a way of unraveling a man with only a few words. 

“No, I did the hurting.”

She lifted his bandaged hands. 

“I hope they’re not ruined. You have gorgeous hands, as I remember.”

Cliff knew what she was doing. She was good at it. His eyes turned glassy. "Better not talk like that in front of my doctor or he'll think I'm queer." 

She smiled wryly. "Aren't you? Aren't we all?"

He waited for her to say more, but she kept quiet, watching him. A priest at confession. 

At length, he disgorged it. 

“I killed those girls, Gloria. I set my dog on them. I stabbed them. Rick burned one of them with his flame thrower. But the other one, I caved her goddamn skull in.” 

Gloria looked at him without flinching.

“I was high off my ass,” he added, almost apologetic.

“And if you hadn’t been?” she queried. 

He chewed on the question for a while. “I would’ve still done it.” A pause. “Do you still think my heart’s not in it?” 

Gloria picked at a seam in his white robe. Her voice was steady. "They were going to kill you. That was their whole purpose, their religion. I would have done the same thing." 

"No. Not like that, you wouldn't have."

Gloria leaned forward and kissed his lips, just enough to get his blood going. 

"I’m just glad you’re alive.” 

And that was good enough for him. 

She sat with him for a while longer, but eventually she had to get up and go talk to the chief of police. 

She said she’d be back with pretzels. 

“Gloria.”

She stopped in the doorway. 

He was an old, sentimental fool. He wanted to say, _ tonight put things in perspective. I don’t have much to offer, but maybe we’d be good together. _ It was a lie. He’d never be good for her, never good enough. Shit, he was still caked in other people's blood and he didn't much regret it. He was a washed-up corpse, still kicking somehow. You couldn't marry a corpse.

Besides, he couldn't leave Rick to his own devices. He felt responsible for him. 

Gloria, the witch, could read his intentions without much effort. 

She pointed to her ring finger. “Remember what happened to the last one?” 

Cliff laughed. 

She always made him laugh, even when he felt like crying. 

She blew him a kiss and left the ward. Her perfume lingered in her wake. He knew that they’d keep in touch, they always did. But once this nasty business was done, he’d never see her again. That’s how things turned out in the end. 

You met someone, and they made you feel like a _ real _person, but you knew you couldn’t live like that forever. Eventually, you had to get back to set. 

When Rick came to see him in the morning, he told him that a big-shot journalist from New York had scheduled an interview with him for the story.

“Gloria something...something Jewish, for sure. I think I read one of her articles once. She sounds like the real deal. Sharon says if she did a profile on me it could really land me big. I’ll mention you too, of course, bud. In fact, I’ll tell her to come and see you. How about that?”

Cliff smiled patiently. He loved the old burden. 

“Thank you, Rick. I’d appreciate it."


End file.
